


Processing

by theianitor



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Getting Arrested, M/M, Police, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27948014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theianitor/pseuds/theianitor
Summary: It had started out like any other night. Lando and George had played some games, had a few beers, then gone to meet up with Max at a friend of his. They’d had a few more drinks, talked and laughed and everything had been perfectly alright.Then Max had wanted to move on. And his car had been parked at his friend’s. But he was fine to drive, he’d said he was.Only he obviously hadn’t been.
Relationships: Jenson Button/Sebastian Vettel (hinted)
Kudos: 18





	Processing

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure where this came from but words are where you find them, kinda thing. Still going for that total of the year. Enjoy! :)

“Don’t say anything,” Max hissed.

He looked angry, his front still dirty from where the cop had had him lie down on the ground. George didn’t speak. In fact he barely even moved. Lando could tell he was angry from the way he kept working his jaw, but he still kind of admired how tough George looked right now.

Lando did not look tough, he thought. He certainly didn’t feel tough. He felt like he’d been punted down a flight of stairs, and while he’d stopped, his brain was still falling.

“Did you hear me?” Max said a little bit louder. “Don’t say a fucking thing.”

“Hey!”

The cop who was leading Max along gave him a nudge, forcing him to move up ahead of Lando and George. Lando had been about to answer but closed his mouth quickly, not wanting the police to be angry with him.

It had started out like any other night. He and George had played some games, had a few beers, then gone to meet up with Max at a friend of his. They’d had a few more drinks, talked and laughed and everything had been perfectly alright.

Then Max had wanted to move on. And his car had been parked at his friend’s. But he was fine to drive, he’d said he was.

Only he obviously hadn’t been.

The cops had noticed right away and pulled him over. And Max had tried to run. Not much, not seriously, but he’d tried.

And the cops had caught up with him easily, and they’d asked George and Lando to step outside, and they’d put Max face down on the ground while they searched the car.

And they’d found the weed.

Lando hadn’t even known about it. Sure, he knew Max smoked sometimes, but Lando would never have thought he’d be so stupid he keep any in the car.

George hadn’t said a word, not the whole time. He’d said his name when the cop asked, and beyond that he’d just been quiet, lips pressed together, jaw clenched shut, his eyes sharp and angry as he now and then glanced at Max. Like he couldn’t believe it.

Lando couldn’t fucking believe it either. He’d actually been arrested. Proper, as-seen-on-TV arrested. The cuffs felt lighter than he had ever imagined, the police car was stuffy and kind of smelly, like there had been lots of people in it over time; perfumes and cigarette smoke and sweat and something Lando couldn’t place, but that he wanted to call _nerves_. He and George were kept together, while Max got to ride in a car of his own.

“What are we going to do?” Lando whispered. He was afraid to speak. It felt like his voice would crack, and like it would set off tears.

“First you’ll be taken to booking for processing, and then held until you can either arrange bail or otherwise sort out the situation,” the cop in the front passenger seat said, either mistakenly thinking Lando was talking to her, or just cutting in to make sure they didn’t talk too much to each other.

Not that there was much risk of that. George still didn’t answer, but looked over with that cold stare. Lando wanted him to say something, or to at least react. He desperately hoped George wasn’t mad at _him_.

They arrived at the station and were taken down a long hall to a little room with a counter and a man sitting behind thick glass. In turn, they had their pockets emptied and had to turn in their wallets, cell phones, and shoe laces, stating their names again and being told they might have to stay the night, because it was “busy”.

“Listen, don’t say anything, my dad-” Max started as soon as they were beyond the desk-man, being led down another hall.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” The cop that had been on Max before gave him another push, and Max glowered at him. “I’m taking him down to three, put those two separate.”

“No!” Lando said quickly, and only just saw George’s steely glare soften for a second.

His protest didn’t matter though. The female officer who seemed to have been assigned to lead him around stopped in front of a stretch of barred wall, while the other two officers, George, and Max, kept walking down the hall.

The door was pretty small but sounded heavy as it clanged open, controlled from somewhere out of sight. He was instructed to turn around and let her take the cuffs through the bars once he was inside.

Lando looked around. There were maybe ten other guys in the cell. The cell itself was just an open, light gray, rectangular space with a few benches coming out of the back wall. In one corner was a horribly shiny metal toilet without a lid, and an equally metal-looking sink. There were no walls or doors to the “bathroom area”, and Lando was just a _little bit_ thankful that he didn’t have to go just then.

Feeling the eyes of everyone in the cell follow him as he went, he took the spot furthest from anybody and sat down on the very edge of one of the benches. He pulled one leg up onto the seat and put his arms around it.

It suddenly felt very cold. It suddenly felt very lonely.

\--

George followed instructions and didn’t even look as Max was taken even further down the long hall. If he yelled, Lando would probably hear him, but there was understandably some space between the holding cells, so they couldn’t see each other at all. A quick look around the room didn’t give him any cause for concern, really. Twelve other men were in the cell, two were talking quietly on the left-hand side, one was slumped over on one of the wall-mounted benches, sleeping. Judging from his clothes, he might just have been homeless.

There were no unoccupied benches and George, feeling he’d really rather not get in to any conversations, or worse, arguments, went to sit down on the floor on the right side of the room. Thankfully, it didn’t smell and there were no stains of any kind of suspicious nature. He sank down and rested his arms on top of his knees, feet apart in case he’d have to get up quickly.

He chanced another glance around the room. They’d been looking at him when he came in, which was natural, but now everyone was looking away again, re-absorbed in whatever had held their attention before he’d arrived.

All except for one.

George looked away quickly, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Mentally, he tried logging the man’s appearance in case there was any kind of trouble.

Dark blond hair, swept back. Dark blue jeans, black knitted sweater. Neat and tidy, no jacket. Sporty-looking sneakers. Perhaps mid-thirties, but George had never been great with ages. As far as he could tell, the guy was sober.

He really hoped the guy didn’t want any kind of trouble. He was taller than George, older, and broader, so if he wanted to hurt him for whatever reason, or even if he was just a creep, it’d be a bit of time before any cops came to check on them and George would have to fend for himself. He didn’t want that. He was a runner, not a fighter.

Daring another look, the guy was still sitting on the same bench and looking at George like he found him slightly funny. When he saw George look up, he jerked his head up a little, as if in greeting. Without thinking, George returned it in kind.

\--

The cell was officially hell, Lando thought, his eyes doing another lap of the room, settling on nothing for more than a second. He tried to keep his focus on his hands, his fingers pressing against each other, trying to occupy himself by touching each of his nails in turn, trying to figure out how long might have passed.

He had no idea, and it was driving him crazy.

His thoughts were swirling wildly too. What would his parents say? Was George mad at him? Could they ever hang out with Max again? And what was he going to _do_? What did one do when one had been arrested? He had no idea.

In the movies, people asked for lawyers. They got one phone call, and then... Lando didn’t know. This wasn’t a movie.

“Um... excuse me?”

The voice was soft but he still startled like he’d been hit. The man who had been talking jerked back too, his hand had been outstretched like he’d been about to touch Lando’s shoulder.

“What?” Lando said, ready to get up if this man announced he wanted the whole bench, or whatever. He didn’t want to get in trouble with anyone.

“I was just going to ask... if you’re okay?” The man looked to the seat next to Lando’s, and Lando pressed his lips together. Fucking hell. He wished this guy wouldn’t talk to him, he was about to start crying, and whatever somebody might say, if they were bawling their eyes out like a baby, they probably didn’t _seem_ very okay.

“Mhm,” Lando said, lips still closed tight. He looked to the seat too, and the man apparently took it as an answer to his wordless question and sat down beside him. He still kept from touching him though.

He looked somehow small, Lando thought absently. He had a kind face, soft, in some way, with a few days of stubble and kind of worried-looking eyes. His hair was light brown and a little flat, like he hadn’t washed it in a few days maybe. He was wearing a windbreaker jacket which scrunched and crunched as he sat and moved, his jeans were worn, as were his shoes. Maybe he was a homeless person, Lando thought, hoping that wasn’t too judgmental.

“Are you sure?” the man asked, leaning down a little to get a better look at Lando’s face. “Is... is it your first time being arrested?”

“Mhm,” Lando said again, and despite keeping his lips pressed tight together, he could feel them wobbling. Fucking hell. He did _not_ want to cry in front of this guy.

“It’s okay if you want to cry,” the guy said, keeping his voice down. “The first time is scary. I’m Sebastian.” He dug around in his jacket pocket and took out an opened pack of tissues, taking one out and handing it to Lando.

“Lando,” Lando said, accepting the paper. He tried to dab it at his eyes discreetly, but it just seemed to make new tears appear as fast as he soaked them up.

“What happened, Lando?” Sebastian said, still speaking in that slow, calm way.

Before Lando knew what had really happened, he was letting the tears fall, telling this guy Sebastian about his Friday night, about Max’s stupid friend, and the stupid car, and stupid Max, and the stupid weed. Before he was done he’d used up another two of Sebastian’s tissues.

\--

George couldn’t stop his foot from twitching. His heel was bouncing just slightly, not making any noise despite the floor being just painted concrete, but he couldn’t stop it moving. His arse was starting to feel cold though, and his back was getting stiff. An hour must have passed by now, maybe more.

He did everything to focus _away_ from his grumbling stomach. While Lando and Max had indulged in plenty of snacks, George had stupidly declined, thinking he’d grab something a bit more healthy when they got back home. Or even a burger on the way, that would still have been better than scarfing down crisps. He’d been working out lately, and didn’t want to wreck his progress completely. But now he was hungry.

“Oi, officer.”

George didn’t raise his head, but shifted his eyes to check. He’d been correct; the sweater-wearing guy had gotten up from his seat and gone over to the bars, and was now leaning against them on his elbows, his arms out in the hall like he was quite used to these kinds of surroundings. He was talking to one of the cops. Then the cop left.

It was another minute or so, by George’s count, before the cop returned and handed the guy a single-wrapped sandwich.

He was _so close_ to asking. _So close_. But even as he was finishing the thought, the cop glanced in through the bars at the rest of them, and George just _knew_ he wouldn’t get any sandwich even if he asked.

“Want some?” the guy had wandered back to the back of the cell, but rather than going to his old seat, had moved closer to where George was sitting. He was holding out the sandwich. It was wrapped in plastic and looked like plain white bread and cheese.

At this point George was about ready to eat anything.

“No thanks,” he said, trying to make it definitive, but not rude.

“Come on, you must be hungry.”

The guy sat down on the closest bench, still smiling at him. It unnerved George slightly.

“No, thank you,” he said clearly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tell you what, I’ll split it with you?”

“For what?”

“Sorry?”

George put on his best glare and looked the guy straight in the eye this time.

“Random people don’t just _offer_ you food. So what do you _want_?”

The man looked slightly taken aback, but then he started chuckling to himself.

“Here,” he said, tossing the sandwich the last little bit of distance between them. “I’m Jenson.”

“George,” George said, catching the package mostly out of reflex. He looked at the food suspiciously, but this guy could hardly have gotten something into or onto it from the time the cop had handed it to him, and it was wrapped like it would have been at any crappy gas station.

“What’re you in for, George?” Jenson asked.

“Bit of this and that,” George said, unwrapping the bread. He was right. It was plain white bread, some kind of fat, and a single, square slice of cheap cheese. He took a bite. “You?”

Jenson sat back on his bench, stretching his legs out, crossing his legs at the ankle and looking quite comfortable.

“Bit of this, bit of that.” He shot George a look like he was trying to see if the joke landed, and his crooked smile grew a bit when George couldn’t resist shaking his head and snorting a single breath of a laugh. The situation was too weird.

With a little food in his belly and someone to at least carry casual conversation with, time passed more quickly. When an officer came by and called for “Button”, Jenson got up to go with him.

It wasn’t until he’d disappeared beyond the bars that George realized he’d told him all about tonight; the car, Lando, Max, the drugs, Max’s friend, everything.

\--

“So you think you can work with him?”

Sebastian hung his jacket and pulled at his shirt a couple of times, trying to get air to circulate a bit. He was sweaty, but looked through the two-way mirror into the interrogation room. Lando had calmed down significantly when he’d been allowed to cry himself out, and was now giving his name and address like it was no problem at all.

“He gets nervous, but I think he can be trained,” Sebastian said, noting the public defender that had come for Lando and his friend George. The last boy, Max, was being seen by a lawyer in a suit that probably cost more than everything the two other boys _and_ their public defender owned combined.

“I told him not to say anything.”

“Hm,” special agent Horner said, looking at the young man with the fluffy hair and the puffy eyes. He still looked a bit young to him, but if Seb wanted to take someone in, he wasn’t going to argue. Seb’s instincts about these things were usually good.

The door opened and Jenson stepped inside, giving Seb a smug look.

“How’d yours do?” he asked, looking on as Lando, who he had dismissed as too easily frazzled, calmly gave the questioning officer a little smile, blinked slowly, but didn’t say anything at all.

“Fine,” Sebastian said. “Of course,” he added after a few seconds, and Jenson chuckled.

“And what about yours then?” Horner asked, checking his watch. They’d be done soon, and it would be Russell’s turn. If Jenson was right about him, he’d be a good find too.

“He’ll be fine,” Jenson said, sounding almost dismissive. “Won’t say a word, trust me.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Hm,” Horner repeated. He didn’t say out loud what he thought about their _process_ , but they’d always done good work so far and he trusted them both implicitly. He also didn’t mention that neither one had deigned to mention that they were at the very least sleeping together. Smirking to himself, he wondered how they ever thought he would miss it.

During the start of processing new agents, he always made a habit of watching more than talking, letting his thoughts wander and merely double-checking that he approved of the choices made by his field-team.

When George Russell’s interrogation ended a mere fifteen minutes later, the young man hadn’t given more than his name. Special agent Horner nodded to himself. His agents had both made good choices. Now the real processing began.

\- The End -

**Author's Note:**

> All in good fun, as per usual! :)  
> Thanks for the read! <3


End file.
